Clocks
Barlow and his customer marvel as the escapement begins to rotate. His workshop is laced with tobacco and damp and the fading scent of industry.
He delivers the clock the next day. His clientele marvel at its resplendence, and metronomic precision, and impossible intricacy. Only Barlow sees the imperfections wrought by his aging hands.
Later, he drinks away the earnings
Nameless winds up the clock every Friday evening, thinking of his father and how he had nothing, died with nothing, and was nothing. Pity. Nameless languishes in his drawing room full of accumulated grandeur.
One Friday the clock goes unwound. On Tuesday it lies still. Nameless has nothing.
Bruce comes by the clock at auction and gifts it to himself. When it strikes five every day, Peggie knows to bring Bruce his half-pint of ale.
Eventually, Bruce has to pour his own beer. The clock is five minutes slow. The chiming brings life back to the room.
Max looks at the mantlepiece, distractedly, every hour. On mute and off camera, his colleagues can’t hear or see the clock, pride of place on the mantlepiece. Just like his grandfather had it for half of his life. Just as Isa will for half of his life.
The chimes interleave with the alarm of yet another blood sugar spike, and in the echo he hears mortality.
Another ~200 word short story I wrote for an assignment for a short story writing class this week. The task was to follow an object through time.